Bamboozled
by xffan-2000
Summary: Written for the 2016 Rumbelle Challenge, Round 1 entry. Prompts: Trembling, Harry Potter and "Once Upon a December." Written under the penname "The Droid You're Looking For."
BAMBOOZLED

By: xffan_2000 (Written as "The Droid You're Looking For" for the 2016 Rumbelle Challenge.)

Author's Note: Written for the 2016 Rumbelle Challenge, Round 1 entry. Prompts: Trembling, Harry Potter and "Once Upon a December."

O-O-O-O-O

During his three hundred years as the Dark One, Rumplestiltskin has wielded unparalleled magical power. He has perfected the art of crafting sticky traps, of plotting nefarious deeds, of performing cunning deceptions. While he presents to the outside world an image of an ill-directed, often manic soul, in truth he's dedicated every ounce of his power and every one of his long years to the single goal of finding a pathway to the Land Without Magic.

No one dares impede that quest, else one finds one's self transformed into a snail and squashed under the Dark One's boot. He hasn't time for foolishness, especially today. For today, as part of his single-minded pursuit, he will meet with a wizard in a far-off land. A land whose neighboring city parallels the Land Without Magic. Rumplestiltskin hypothesizes there may be a thin spot between realms there - a way to break through without relying on the whims of a confused young queen.

But before he leaves the Dark Castle, he twists a wrist and changes a tiny broom closet into an ostentatious ballroom.

"Curse you, Rumplestiltskin!" a distant female voice hollers.

He titters.

Switching rooms in the castle has become something of a hobby for him. He deems it a good way to keep his magical skills in good working order. The fact that it irritates his maid is merely a side effect. It's not as though he relishes hearing her squeak when places aren't where she left them, or that he enjoys seeing her purse her delicate lips into a pout when she thinks he's watching her. Not that he watches her. Certainly not. He's far too busy scheming to waste time spying on the help.

He didn't once notice her pretty blue eyes as she glowered at him the time he converted the library into a cupboard that held a single dog-eared book on knitting. He also didn't notice those same blue eyes shine with sincerity when, three days later, she presented him with a rather shabbily-made scarf. He most definitely didn't feel any twinge in his heart at the gift. He may have restored the library that day. Or maybe he didn't. He can't be bothered to remember such trivialities regarding a simple housekeeper.

Before he leaves for his meeting, he pops down to the new ballroom. It's not that he fears she's teetering high on a ladder trying to clean the chandeliers. No, he would never be concerned about her well-being. He wants only to make sure she's scrubbing every nook and cranny of the elaborately-carved woodwork.

Rather than cleaning (or reading), he finds Belle curtseying to thin air. Her hands rise, her left going to where a man's shoulder would be, her right fitting into her imaginary beau's grasp. She sways as her feet move in small steps, allowing herself to be guided by a man that isn't there. The sting in the center of his chest isn't jealousy, because he has no reason to be jealous of a caretaker's memory.

She turns and he shrinks back; but her eyes are closed and she doesn't see him. She hums a sad little tune, one that doesn't fit with the smile on her lips. _Once Upon a December_ , his mind provides; an old song from a devastated eastern kingdom. The song, it appears, outlasted its homeland and made its way southwest to his maid's ears.

He should leave, get on with his meeting. Yes. He will vanish and she'll never know he was there. A cloud of dark smoke and he's gone from his hiding spot.

He reappears in front of her, taking the place of her ghost-partner.

Her eyes snap open. He grins, as wide and as sinister as he's able.

"Getting all your work done, dearie?"

"We had a ballroom very similar to this," she says, neglecting his question.

The smile fades from her face and her gorgeous eyes cloud. Her hands tremble against him and Rumplestiltskin feels his smirk wilt.

"My father and I danced that night…"

"Which night would that be?"

"The night of my engagement."

There's disgust in her voice. He's sure it has to do with his proximity to her; no young woman would want to be so near the Dark One.

"Ah, yes, your beloved betrothed."

She huffs. "We had no business throwing a ball to celebrate anything, what with the ogres at the gates. But Gaston and his father insisted. They weren't going to let an opportunity to preen slip by, no matter the situation."

As she describes the evening, Rumplestiltskin chews the inside of his cheek. He surmises that she is so lost in the memories that she doesn't realize she should be terrified, that she should yank herself out of the embrace of the most feared sorcerer in all the realms. His fingers twitch against her lower back, not because he wishes to draw her closer, but perhaps wanting to cast a spell he's yet to consider. His palms sweat, but it's most likely from the heat of the ballroom. He's certain it must be hot in there, for he feels very warm.

When he no longer hears her speaking, he says, "A very vivid memory." He hasn't any idea what she said, but it has nothing to do with the fact that he may or may not have been lulled by the relaxing lilt of her voice.

"It's not difficult to remember the night you're traded away in exchange for an army."

That he did hear. "Traded?"

"Like chattel. One daughter for one army." She chuckles and it sounds rueful. "I suspect the deal is void, because the army was decimated that first week, and Gaston never married me."

"Yet you called on me and traded yourself away." The pang he feels can't be shame, for the Dark One never regrets setting high prices for magic.

She looks him directly in the eye. "I had no say in my father's deal with Gaston's father. Calling for you was my decision. Trading myself for your help was also my decision."

"And no one decides your fate but you."

Belle smirks at him and tugs on his shoulder. "Are we going to dance?"

"You wish to dance with the monster that ensnared you?"

She squeezes his hand. "I've said it numerous times, you aren't a monster."

He releases his hold on her waist just long enough to snap his fingers, creating a harpsichord. The instrument starts playing a tune that's neither too slow nor too fast. They move a few steps together. It's awkward and stiff.

"I am monstrous," he reminds her. "You live in a dungeon."

"A very well-appointed dungeon," she says, "which is now located at the top of the south tower, without bars or locks."

"I could move it back downstairs and return the rats."

"You could. But you won't."

"Don't test me, dearie."

"Why not? You're constantly testing me."

"I'm the Dark One!" He releases her hand to turn his wrist with a flourish.

"Yes, very dark," she agrees, as she takes his scaled hand back into hers.

Belle edges closer, her softness pressing against his hard leather coat. His mouth goes dry, something he again blames on the unnatural heat of the room and not the comforting warmth of her body.

Her head comes to rest on his shoulder and she says, "Dark One or no, you are my hero."

He jerks back, stopping their movement, and stares into her eyes. Sober. Serious. So very _blue_. "Too much dancing," he concludes. "You're not thinking clearly."

"You stopped the ogres. Stopped the _killing_. You saved my people. That's something entire armies and all their blustering, pompous leaders couldn't do. That makes you a hero."

He tilts his head. "You are a very odd woman."

"So I've been told." She reaches up and kisses him at the corner of his mouth. "Thank you."

"For what?" He's sure that didn't come out as a marveled whisper.

"For being you."

As she begins to pull away, he squeezes her hand. "I'm leaving on a trip."

She smiles. "I promise not to burn down the castle while you're gone."

The Dark One doesn't need company; he is independent and will take his leave of his housekeeper without a glance back.

"Would you care to join me?" he asks.

She brightens so much he thinks he may be blinded. "Where are we going?"

"I have a meeting with a wizard about a boy who lived and the dark lord who tried to kill him."

He waves a hand and she's dressed in warmer clothing. He has no need for protection from the cold, so he makes no changes to his clothing. None at all. Except, perhaps, _one_ small concession.

"Sounds intriguing," Belle says as she ties a loose knot in the improperly-knitted scarf he wears around his neck.

Rumplestiltskin teleports them away, firm in the knowledge that no one – especially a little maid – impedes the Dark One's quest.


End file.
